Monday's Child (A Day to Remember Book 1) Read online

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  Cover by Koechel Peterson & Associates, Minneapolis, Minnesota

  MONDAY’S CHILD

  Copyright © 1999 by Linda Chaikin

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Chaikin, L. L.,

  Monday’s Child / Linda Chaikin.

  p. cm.—(A Day to Remember Series)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-0067-6

  ISBN 978-0-7369-5430-3 (eBook)

  1. Title. II. Series: Chaikin, L. L., A Day to Remember Series.

  PS3553.H2427M66 1999

  813′ .54—dc21

  99-20926

  CIP

  All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a nontransferable, nonexclusive, and noncommercial right to access and view this electronic publication, and purchaser agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s and publisher’s rights is strictly prohibited.

  Contents

  Family Trees

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  FAMILY TREES

  KLOSSNER FAMILY, ST. MORITZ AND DAVOS, SWITZERLAND:

  Gerhart Klossner: doctor

  Inger Grendelmier Klossner: Gerhart’s wife

  Franz Klossner: Gerhart and Inger’s son

  Anna Klossner: Gerhart and Inger’s daughter

  Peter Grendelmier: Anna’s husband

  Krista Grendelmier: Peter and Anna’s daughter

  Elsa Klossner von Buren: Gerhart’s cousin and Wilhelm’s wife

  Henrich Klossner: Franz’s cousin

  Veena Klossner: Henrich’s wife

  Vonda Klossner Gotthard: Franz’s cousin and Georg’s wife

  GOTTHARD FAMILY, ZURICH:

  Josef Gotthard: owner of Gotthard Enterprises

  Georg Gotthard: Josef’s brother

  Paul Gotthard: Georg and Vonda’s son

  VON BUREN FAMILY, ZURICH:

  Wilhelm von Buren: retired banker

  Ehrlich von Buren: Wilhelm and Elsa’s son

  COHEN FAMILY, AUSTRIA:

  Benjamin Cohen: tailor

  Sarah Cohen: Benjamin’s wife

  Judith Cohen: Benjamin and Sarah’s daughter

  Reuben Harman: Judith’s husband

  Tirzah Cohen: Benjamin and Sarah’s daughter

  Fritz Cohen: Benjamin and Sarah’s son

  Stella Cohen: Fritz’s granddaughter

  Map

  1

  ZURICH

  Krista walked uphill from the von Buren mansion near Bergstrasse 19. If she were under surveillance her mid-morning stroll appeared ordinary enough: between modeling assignments for Gotthard Enterprises she always came home to Switzerland, often to Zurich in particular, for a warm, loving visit with her bachelor uncle, Franz Klossner. Nothing surprising there. She was very devoted to Uncle Franz. He had taken her under his wing when she was twelve and raised her after the tragic death of her parents in a climbing accident near the St. Moritz ski lodge, now run by her cousin, Henrich Klossner.

  Yes, she thought as she walked along the Zurich street. Anyone who cared to notice could see that she and Uncle Franz were close. There would be no reason to question her visit. And she also shared a strong interest in his work as head professor of Swiss and German history at the University in Zurich’s Old Town. Why, she might even have followed his steps and opted for a teaching career in history herself, except for her appearance. The tweed and oxford society of the conservative academic world would not take a beautiful woman seriously.

  Her mouth tightened as she trudged uphill against the bone-chilling wind. At least Interpol found her appearance an asset for their cause in Europe; she was above suspicion. Her face might adorn Europe’s esteemed fashion magazines, but it was also useful for the underground work that secretly linked Gotthard Enterprises with international espionage.

  What would Uncle Franz do when Paul broke that news to him this morning? Paul would be waiting at her uncle’s apartment when she arrived. It was Franz’s birthday and the best excuse she had to bring him the small, rare copy of an early history of Roman rule in Zurich. She’d stumbled upon the book during her last modeling job in Venice while roaming the little used bookshops with Paul.

  Her thoughts turned again to her concerns about working with Interpol. What is the new job all about this time? she wondered. Paul had told her so little in last night’s late telephone call at the von Buren mansion. Her mission was simple, he had told her. While on her way this morning to see Uncle Franz she was to visit B. Rhinefelden’s out-of-print bookshop and purchase another book—this one of old World War II photography, taken by Elsa Klossner von Buren. The book would be on display in the window. Everything had been arranged beforehand and should go smoothly. She was not to worry.

  Krista’s supple black leather boots echoed across the damp cobbles as she began the climb up the street that circled the University. Wherever she looked there were Gothic buildings, some with stone spires and what she considered ugly little demons—gargoyles grinning at her in stone.

  The chill wind blew against her and she pushed her gloved hands deeper inside the pockets of her ankle-length black coat. The weak February sunlight failed to warm the stone where frost lingered, glistening on venerable old buildings. The two-and three-story cloistered houses, occasionally interspersed with small town squares, lined the hilly, twisting streets that stretched from the University’s heights down to the shores of the blue-gray River Limmat that eventually flowed into the German Rhine.

  She paused to look back in the direction from which she had come, studying the shore of the lake below as if seeing it for the first time. Her eyes were busy, making sure she hadn’t been followed by a man she had first noticed in Rome.

  This morning she thought the river looked sullen and secretive. She knew that the river was concealing an age-old past, like many of the Swiss who, for the first time that she could remember, were being asked probing questions about their neutrality during the war across their northern border. Had Swiss Banks cooperated with Nazi Germany by laundering looted gold reserves from the occupied countries of Belgium, France, and Poland in order to finance Hitler’s Third Reich and its atrocities?

  The scandal grew, for it was also common knowledge that Europe’s Jewry, faced with growing anti-Semitism under Hitler’s dictatorship, had tried to preserve their famil
y wealth from confiscation by sending it into neutral Switzerland before being sent to the death camps. But now, many of those same banks were under scrutiny for continuing to hold onto perhaps billions in secret numbered accounts, while refusing to disclose information to the families of the holocaust victims. Jewish groups wanted the matter looked into with restitution made to the rightful heirs. Meanwhile, the bankers were accused of delay tactics. In response, some Swiss bankers and political leaders in Switzerland had made what Jews considered anti-Semitic remarks. Apologies were demanded, resignations were on the brink. It was an ugly time, and even more disturbing to her, Paul seemed to think the family might somehow be involved. For Krista, the thought was revolting.

  “At all costs we must save our good name,” he had told her.

  “Our good name?” she had countered. “What is that when our nation may have turned its back upon thousands of desperate people trying to reach our neutral border, leaving them no alternative but to return to Adolph Eichmann’s gas chambers?”

  “That has yet to be proven,” he had said stiffly.

  As she stood looking down at the Limmat, Krista felt unduly cold. Perhaps it came from the unpleasantness brooding on the horizon and the thought that her future was changing more rapidly than she could handle in her own strength. The months and years flew by and subtle changes were occurring in her faith. Franz had given her a new Bible for Christmas. She renewed the decision to begin reading it again in earnest.

  The shoreline of the lake was packed with turn-of-the-century houses and small private boats. Paul kept his luxurious yacht anchored on the left shore of the lake. The two of them had once gone sailing on a pleasant Sunday afternoon. After attending the church service at the historical Grossmunster where Zwingli had preached the Reformation, she and Paul had enjoyed a leisurely luncheon at one of the popular cafes on the Uto Quai—the wide promenade connecting the small harbors—then they enjoyed the view on the lake until late afternoon when the sun set. They had walked back uphill to the University where her uncle was waiting for them in his comfortable apartment with coffee and Swiss chocolate. Such pleasant Sundays would eventually draw to a close after an evening discussing history and literature. Yes…those had been better days, and it felt to her that the time for them was also drawing to a close.

  Krista watched the wind beat the lake into silvery ripples as a few clouds gathered near the lower hills overlooking the water. In the distance, behind the hills, monumental snow-clad Swiss peaks gazed down on Zurich as though undisturbed by the modern rush of civilization. She cooled her emotions by taking a moment to dismiss the tension from her mind. The Alps dwarfed and humbled everything. The grandeur and stability declared the Creator’s sovereignty over men and nations as well as the diabolical forces that ruled unregenerate political leaders. Natural man’s tainted history might flow onward like the Limmat, but his final journey would always lead to a righteous accounting.

  Krista turned away casually, as though in no hurry, and continued her trek uphill toward the University. She had gone a third of the way up the street when she neared the bookseller’s shop. She paused as she had done at some other store windows and looked at the items on display. Her gaze fell to the narrow window space and studied the copies of rare books. Yes, it was there, the book Paul had telephoned her about last night. A 1938 edition of photographs taken in Austria and Berlin by an inexperienced photographer named Elsa Klossner who had been hardly out of her teens. Paul had told her the family didn’t realize there were any surviving copies and it was important to visit the bookstore and purchase it. He hadn’t explained more on the telephone, and she knew enough of Paul’s ways not to ask. At least not now. She needn’t worry about the price, he had told her. All the cumbersome details had been previously arranged with the owner. She was to merely buy the book and bring it with her. Paul would be discreetly visiting Uncle Franz at the University. He would arrive unnoticed and leave in the same way. She was not to worry, he had repeated.

  She did worry. Her heart beat faster. The other books in the display were on history, with title pages open to scrutiny and yellowing with age. Elsa’s collection of old black and white photography might show her early amateurish style, but the photograph on the book’s open page was graphic, evoking memories of dark and violent history. She looked at it more carefully. It was the Austrian Prime Minister Englebert Dollfuss, a somewhat handsome looking man, arms swinging at his side as he strolled in uniform before Austrian troops. The caption below the photograph read: “Dollfuss before his assassination.”

  In the summer of 1934, a year after Hitler came to power, the Nazi Party had been outlawed in Austria and had gone underground, infiltrating the government. In order to bring Hitler’s birthplace under German control, Nazi thugs had staged a plot to storm the Austrian palace. They brutally murdered Prime Minister Dollfuss and other officials in the palace who had been opposed to Hitler’s young Nazi party, and afterward placed a Nazi stooge over Austria, thus establishing the first Nazi government. The stunned populace had no organized response.

  Why did it seem that those committed to evil were able to conquer with methods that the righteous could never use, Krista wondered. She remembered that Uncle Franz always pointed her back to his favorite Psalm, 37. “Fret not because of evildoers…for they shall soon be cut down like the grass, and wither as the green herb…do not fret because of him who prospers in his way, because of the man who brings wicked schemes to pass. Cease from anger, and forsake wrath; Do not fret—it only causes harm. For evildoers shall be cut off; But those who wait on the Lord, they shall inherit the earth. For yet a little while and the wicked shall be no more…”

  Krista glanced up and caught her reflection in the shop window. Whenever she talked about the Bible, Paul was amused. “You just don’t look the serious sort.” That remark always disturbed her. The striking image frowning back was that of one of Europe’s top-paid models who, though usually draped in sleek black velvet when displaying glittering Gotthard diamonds, presently appeared as a somber twenty-four-year-old woman with flaxen hair, eyes now as hard as turquoise, flawless pale skin, and a mouth drawn tight.

  At least I won’t be recognized, she thought.

  She entered the bookshop, the tinkling bell chiming. She whiffed heating oil, old paper, and morning coffee from a small crowded room in the back. A heavy white-haired man with rimless glasses came out and looked at her with keen pale eyes.

  “Guten Tag, fräulein,” he murmured softly.

  “Yes, good morning,” she repeated casually, glancing about. Someone else was in the bookstore. He wore a non-descript gray raincoat and Homburg hat. His shoulder was toward her as he leaned by a shelf reading an old book. Something about him troubled her, but she couldn’t decide what it was. She walked up beside him, pretending to look on the shelf where he lounged. “Excuse me,” she said in German. He moved to the side, but continued to read. She was aware of his height and a muscular build. A skier? Climber?

  “Excuse me again, have we not met before?” It was a bold thing to do, perhaps foolish, but she could not walk out with Elsa’s book if there were any chance she was being watched. Paul had told her the shop would be empty, but he couldn’t manage everything. Why hadn’t the owner kept the store closed until he saw her at the window? She had worn a green scarf around her neck as Paul had requested. The shopkeeper, she noticed, hovered in the background looking nervous.

  She had forced the patron to look at her, always dangerous but now, necessary. He did so without apparent concern, adjusting a pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses. He removed them and looked at her squarely. Krista peered into a pair of dull gray eyes with a glassy expression. “Nein,” came the brisk German. “Are you a friend of my wife?” He removed his Homburg, revealing tight curly auburn hair.

  She murmured her apologies and he waved them aside and turned back to his book. She had noted the title, The Reformer Zwingli.

  Mr. Rhinefelden spoke from behind her. “Professo
r Zimmer, I have found the other book on Zwingli you wanted. Shall I wrap it?”

  “Yes, please. Include this one as well.” He handed it to the little round man and excusing himself again, stepped around her and walked up to the counter to pay.

  When he had gone, the door chimes still pleasantly ringing, Mr. Rhinefelden removed his glasses and shined the lenses on a long white handkerchief.

  “You have met Professor Zimmer before, at the University perhaps? A friend of your uncle?”

  He was too curious. “No, my mistake,” she said.

  “Professor Zimmer comes here every week.”

  Was it her own uncertainties or was Mr. Rhinefelden a little too anxious to explain Professor Zimmer’s presence? She showed no interest—she had already shown too much. Paul would reprimand her for it if he knew.

  “The book?” she asked simply, glancing toward the store window. The sun had disappeared and it was becoming gray and windy. “Looks as if it is going to rain soon. I must hurry.”

  “Yes, yes, it is here on the counter waiting for you, Fräulein von Buren. Will there be anything else I can help you with?”

  He had already brought the book from the front window and wrapped it in brown paper. “That will be all,” she told him, walking up.

  He handed it to her, watching the door. Krista placed the package in her leather satchel, thanked him, and walked to the front.

  “Auf Wiedersehen,” she said as she left the warm enclosure.

  “Auf Wiedersehen,” he called as the chimes again tinkled.

  On the narrow street again, Krista braced herself against the wind. Before walking on she glanced at the display in the front window. Yes, the book was gone. She turned and resumed the climb uphill toward the University district. She half expected to see Professor Zimmer a block ahead of her on his way to class, but he was nowhere in view on the street. Perhaps he had stepped inside one of the other shops, or had made better speed than she. There was a bakery ahead that was often crowded with professors and students. Perhaps he had stepped inside.