Obsessed Page 35

  For the first time in many hours, Esther began to realize that not all was as she’d imagined. She wasn’t in the front seat. Stephen wasn’t sitting next to her. She wasn’t even in his car!

  “She’s awake,” someone said. The old man she’d imagined in her dreams.

  Adrenaline began to clear Esther’s mind. She jerked her arms and found that they were bound behind her back. She cried out, only to discover that her mouth had been taped. And next to her, Ruth lay bound and gagged as well. She was still sedated.

  The full reality of her predicament settled on her mind like a massive boulder, crushing any attempt to rise above it. Braun had struck Stephen in the church, maybe leaving him dead, and then left the village with her and Ruth drugged and bound. They’d stopped somewhere and collected the old man, who sat in the passenger seat now, breathing through an oxygen tube. The father. The one who’d hanged the women. With the son behind the wheel and the father in the passenger seat, they’d rolled through Poland, and had just passed Stutthof.

  They were going to Toruń.

  Esther leaned back, swung her feet up, and kicked at the heads on the other side of the seat. Her right foot struck the old man. She kicked at Roth, but the car swerved and she missed him. She struck out again, screaming through the tape, shutting out their curses.

  The son reached up and wrenched her foot. Pain shot up her leg, and she arched her back.

  “The next time I will break it,” he said, and she had no doubt that he would. The father was silent.

  She yelled at Roth through the tape, “What are you doing? Let me out!” But he couldn’t understand her, and even if he could, the demand wouldn’t generate a response. She knew the answer anyway.

  They were taking her to Toruńbecause that’s where the treasure was. Because that’s where the hangings were.

  The old man slowly twisted around and stared at her, and for a moment she thought he was part animal. Deep lines like canyons ran across his white face. His eyes looked black in the dim light, abysmal holes. She returned his gaze, terrified.

  Gerhard turned back without speaking.

  Silence settled around her once again. She was in a black car with leather seats, wet with her own sweat, sitting next to Ruth, who was still mercifully separated from consciousness. The drug had affected her older, frail body more severely. Her mother was a fighter to the end, though. Ruth had bought them some time, knowing that the moment she revealed the location of the treasure, their usefulness would end.

  Esther forced her mind to dig deep, as deep as it could through the lingering effects of the drug. But she couldn’t fathom a way out.

  The car crested a small hill, and both men looked to the right. Two hundred yards off the road stood two old wooden posts with a crossbar, and beyond that the ruins of buildings jutting from tall grass. A second hill rose to the right of the dilapidated compound, and on that hill was a very old building that was shedding its red paint and looked to be hardly standing.

  A pale moon hovered in the graying dusk sky.

  Torunå.

  Esther’s heart hammered. The gates still stood! She had heard that most camps had been leveled.

  They turned onto a gravel drive and drove across the field toward the looming gate.

  Roth stopped twenty meters from the gate and turned off the engine.

  Silence smothered them.

  The engine ticked softly.

  Esther stared past the entrance. She could see them now, as ghosts, a thousand starving women, dressed in gray clothing, standing in formation, waiting orders from a ruthless commandant.

  “Parts still stand,” Gerhard said. He slipped out of his nasal cannula and looked at the gate in wonder. “This is better than I could have hoped for.” He faced Roth. “You knew?”

  Roth didn’t respond. He opened his door and stepped out.

  A new sound filled Esther’s ears. A field of crickets sawing at their own legs, like an orchestra greeting the new prisoners.

  Roth’s feet crunched on the gravel as he stepped forward, then stopped by the hood. For a moment he just gazed at the camp, then he lifted his chin, put both hands on his hips and breathed deep.

  Gerhard stepped out and walked up to the gate. He touched the wood and brushed his hands together.

  The crickets seemed to scream now. All of them.

  Finally Roth retreated to the back of the car and pulled something from the trunk. He met Gerhard in front of the gate and they approached the entrance to Toruń together, father limping along slowly on thin legs, son holding a shovel and a large coil of rope.

  The shovel was to dig. The rope . . .

  Esther leaned back and shifted her gaze. She would not think about the rope. Ruth slept on, nostrils pulling audibly at the air.

  When Esther looked back up, they were looking up at the crossbar. Even from here she could see the white mark worn on the wood. A rope mark from hundreds of hangings. Roth threw one end of the rope over the wood, lined it up with the groove, and then stood back.

  This was their plumb line, Esther thought with sudden hope. The falling rope marked a spot directly beneath the worn mark. They were going to dig under the spot where they’d hanged their women so many years ago.

  But couldn’t they as easily estimate the center without a rope?

  ROTH BRAUN could feel the power. What he now felt was new. How many souls had he stolen since the war? Too many to count.

  These would be different.

  These were the ones who’d stolen part of his soul first, a feat far more damaging to him in spiritual terms than any occurrence since.

  As he saw it, the only way to undo his father’s grievous sin was to return Gerhard’s full power to him by beating these Jews in their own game, using as much cunning as Martha had.

  Now he would outwit them, not by retrieving the Stones of David— although that was no small accomplishment—but by returning these Jews to the very fate they should have suffered in the first place.

  By hanging them and then bleeding their souls.

  Roth was in a very good mood.

  He glanced at the road that led to the camp. Still no sign of pursuit.

  “I know why you insist on the ritual,” Gerhard said, “but please remember that the Stones are as important.”

  Roth’s mood dimmed. But he was a patient man who could handle the weakness of others when required.

  He couldn’t bring himself to speak to the old man. Dealing with him would be the least of his pleasures, certainly not something to dwell on. Tragic how this man who’d introduced him to the great war of life— the struggle between God and Lucifer over the passions of man—now served the lesser master of greed and self-preservation.

  But this would not stop Roth.

  He turned away from his father and went to get the younger one.

  THE SON walked back toward the car. Opened the door. “Get out.”

  Esther pushed herself away from the door and cocked her legs to protect herself.

  “Is that necessary?” he said impatiently. His eyes were dark, emotionless.

  He grabbed her foot and pulled roughly. She tried to kick—tried to strike him, even though she knew she would only provoke him— but she could not stop her slide. She landed on her back with a dull thump.

  “Get up, or I’ll drag you. And if you kick at me again, I’ll put a bullet in your leg.”

  Esther rolled over, drew her knees under her belly, and struggled to her feet, her arms still tied behind her back. He prodded her and she walked for the gallows, numb.

  Gerhard watched her. “Are you frightened now, little flower?”

  Esther felt a lump fill her throat. Mama? She wanted to cry out, but her mouth was still strapped with tape.

  Roth Braun took Esther’s arm and shoved her to the ground. He quickly wound tape around her legs. Silent. Breathing steadily.

  The old man stared at her, fascinated. His hands trembled by his sides, and his eyes glimmered with delight.
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br />   Roth fashioned a loop with a heavy knot on one end of the rope.

  Esther began to panic again. But before she could even whimper, Roth had pulled her to her feet, spun her so she was facing the road, and shoved the noose over her head. He cinched it tight and tied the rope to the fence so that some pressure, but not too much, pulled on Esther’s neck.

  Braun walked to the car and shook Ruth awake. It took a minute before he finally helped her out of the backseat. Her mother stood unsteadily, gazing dumbly at the camp. Slowly, her eyes focused.

  Braun had more rope in hands, from where, Esther hadn’t seen.

  Roth pulled the tape from her mouth. “No screaming,” he said. “You’ll have your chance to speak, but not now. Walk.”

  He directed Ruth to one side, threw the rope over the crossbar and set a twin loop over Ruth’s head.

  He threw a third length over the bar on Esther’s right.

  Ruth looked at Esther. A tear on Ruth’s cheek glistened in the moonlight, but she showed no other sign of weakness or sorrow. Her mother’s strength gave Esther some courage.

  “Are we ready?” Gerhard asked his son.

  Roth glanced past the car toward the road and hesitated. He was waiting?

  He finally put one hand on the rope and faced Ruth. “If you don’t tell us where it is, or if you direct us to the wrong location, your daughter will suffer painfully. If you cooperate, you will both live. Do you believe me?”

  No answer.

  Roth nodded at his father, who approached Ruth.

  “Where did Martha hide the Stones?” Gerhard asked.

  Ruth stared at him, emotionless. The moment she told them where the treasure was, they would both die, Esther thought, peering down.

  “You’re thinking that we will kill you anyway,” Roth said. “Then what leverage would I have against Stephen? He would tell the world what he knows and I would have a problem. Your choice is a simple one: Either you tell us where the Stones are and live, or Esther dies first, then you.”

  He pulled on the rope, lifting Esther to her tiptoes.

  “One pace south of the center,” Ruth said softly. The words horrified Esther. So quickly! Ruth was too weak to resist.

  Roth stared at Ruth for a long time as if caught off guard by her response. He had the look of a disappointed man.

  He released the rope so that if Esther continued to stand on her toes, the noose wouldn’t cut into her skin.

  Roth removed his coat, placed it carefully on the fence, took up the shovel, and buried its blade deep into the earth roughly one pace to Esther’s left.

  She looked at her mother. Ruth gazed at her, eyes tearful. If Esther could speak past the tape, she would tell her mother that she was okay. That her sacrifice hadn’t been in vain. That she loved Ruth more than she loved life itself.

  Roth swung his shovel. Chunk, scrape, chunk. Metal on dirt. But it wasn’t as loud as the sound of her own breathing. Or her heart.

  It was louder than the crickets, but barely.

  Don’t panic, Esther. They won’t kill you. He’s right, they need you alive to keep Stephen from speaking. They’ve kept you alive all these years. What’s a few more?

  But she didn’t believe it. She’d never felt such lingering horror.

  Maybe someone would come over the hill and discover them. The car and the men were visible from the road. Seeing a man digging a hole at the base of this gate would surely draw the attention of anyone driving by. It had to! But whoever would come out to this dreadful place at night?

  The old man stood stooped, dressed in wool pants that rose halfway up his belly and a gray sweater that looked as old as the war. Behind him on the hill stood the house from where he’d kept watch over his women.

  Esther glanced at Roth steadily digging. There was only one outcome to this madness. Not three or two, but one.

  Gerhard was walking around the hole now, like a vulture, waiting. If she could jump and kick him . . .

  The shovel struck something solid. Gerhard stepped forward and stared into the hole. He dropped to his knees, thrust his arms below the dirt, and yanked on something that came loose reluctantly.

  A container. Small, like a shoe box, maybe an ammunition holder, though she could barely see it.

  They’d found Martha’s treasure.

  She closed her eyes. She heard a small whimper. From her own throat. Panic edged into her mind.

  “Shh, shh, shh,” Ruth whispered. “I will hold you in my arms forever, my dear Esther.”

  “Mama . . .”

  “Be strong, Esther.”

  But Ruth was crying as well.

  50

  IN ROTH’S MIND, FINDING THE STONES WAS MERELY A BONUS. NOT a small one, but still only a bonus.

  Roth’s skin buzzed with anticipation now. They’d set the table up ten meters from the gate, directly in front of Esther. It was a small folding table, not the lavish spread Gerhard had used in the war. But they had a white tablecloth and three crystal goblets. One tall bar stool.

  And a silver knife.

  The ammunition box sat on the ground behind them. Esther teetered on her toes, struggling to keep the rope from choking her. Ruth stood next to her. Gerhard stood by Roth’s side before the table.

  They were all here except Stephen.

  The only thing that dampened Roth’s spirits was Gerhard’s obvious eagerness to hurry the ritual. The Stones were his prize.

  Or were they? He hadn’t actually opened the box yet.

  Gerhard fidgeted and looked at him. “He may not come.”

  Roth watched the road. Still no sign.

  “What are you waiting for?” Ruth demanded. “You have what you came for, and you’re too cowardly to keep your word, so finish it. We’ve defeated you already.”

  He would have to be careful with Ruth. She was still capable of lowering the heights to which he anticipated ascending today.

  “I have no intention of killing you, Ruth,” he said. “Your daughter, perhaps, but not you.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Esther’s body was shaking with fatigue.

  The road was still empty. Roth’s eagerness to move forward forced him into a decision. Although patience was a strength, it had to be balanced against ambition and passion.

  On balance it was time to move forward.

  Roth picked up the bar stool. He stepped around the table.

  “Think about it, Ruth,” he said, but he was looking at Esther’s frantic eyes now. He’d tried to do this once when she was a sleeping baby. It was immeasurably more satisfying now that she was fully aware.

  “As stated, I need Esther alive to keep Stephen under control. And I need you to keep her in line. We really are one big happy family, just as we’ve always been.”

  “If you’d wanted to bleed us for your sickening ritual, you could have done that years ago,” she said.

  “Yes, but not with the same results. Bleeding is pointless unless the subject is in a particular state. I don’t expect you to understand.”

  Esther stared at him with wide eyes.

  He set the stool against her legs, ripped the tape off of her mouth, and walked toward the fence where the rope was tied off.

  “I’m going to pull . . .” He untied the rope and applied some pressure, forcing her to stretch higher. “I advise you to climb the stool as I pull so that I don’t break your neck.”

  Roth pulled. She stabbed at the stool with her legs and drew it under her. Clambered on the first rungs.

  Roth snugged the rope. Watching her filled him with pride. His power was superior to hers. It always had been, but until now he’d never had the true opportunity to express it.

  He pulled harder. “That’s it. Up. Up, up.”

  She winced when the rope tightened on her neck, but she managed to get her knees on the round wood seat.

  “Up, up.”

  He helped her by pulling her up, like drawing a caught fish out of the water. One leg under. The stool t
ipped, nearly spilled. That would have been disappointing. But she was a capable woman. She stood on the stool, trembling like a leaf, coughing and gasping. But standing.

  Roth fed out a couple feet of slack and tied the rope off.

  He walked to the table, picked up the knife and one of the glasses, then faced Esther, whose wrists were still taped together behind her back. Ruth had said nothing. He would have to watch her.

  “I’m just going to cut you, Esther. If you look at your mother’s palms, you’ll see a scar. She’s been cut before. Now it’s your turn. The only reason I put you on the stool was to control you. If you try to kick me while I’m bleeding you, the stool will probably tip over and you’ll drop.”

  She was trying so hard to be brave. But her face was white and stretched paper thin. She was balanced on that razor edge that divided hope and fear.

  He stepped up to her hanging arms and held the glass under her fingertips. He set the blade against her white wrist, just below the gray tape, and pushed lightly.

  She whimpered.

  “You’re in good company. Another Jew was bled by his enemy. Few think of Jesus Christ as a Jew, but he was. It’s why we hate him.”

  Sweat ran down Roth’s lip. His own hand began to shake.

  Then Roth couldn’t hold himself back any longer. He pressed the sharp silver blade down and slid it toward him.

  Esther groaned. Her knees began to buckle, then found strength again.

  A thin trail of blood seeped out of the cut, over her palm, down her forefinger, into the glass.

  “You are a devil,” Ruth said.

  “I am,” he said.

  Roth was temporarily frozen by the moment. Lost in his own glory.

  A tear slipped down his cheek.

  He held the cup out to his father, who took it, mesmerized. Subservient.

  “Drink it, Father.”

  “Not you?”

  “She undermined you, not me.”

  “All of it?”

  “All of it.”

  Gerhard tilted the glass back and swallowed the small pool of blood.

  Roth trembled with anticipation. He turned to Ruth.

  “It’s your turn, my dear. Just a little blood.”